


Making the Most of Tonight

by onwards_outwards



Category: Throne of Glass - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drunk Elide, Elorcan, F/M, Fluff, Lorcan gives Elide the sex talk, Mid EOS, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Yearning, innocent elide, protective lorcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onwards_outwards/pseuds/onwards_outwards
Summary: “You really want me to ask you about sex?” Elide asks, doubtfully. Teasingly, her smile spreading to the rest of her face now. Lorcan looks away, chastising himself for noticing how her eyes brighten. She’s nothing to you, he reminds himself, though it takes him a moment to look in her eyes again.“Elide, there’s absolutely no way you’re remembering this in the morning,” he says, fighting back a quirk of his lips when she laughs, “Ask away.”
Relationships: Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Comments: 35
Kudos: 191





	Making the Most of Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Elorcan owns my heart, so for my first fic I wanted to give them a little more attention mid-EOS. This is set while Elide and Lorcan are still performing with the troupe, but I don't have my copy of Empire of Storms with me, so I probably made some mistakes with the timeline. 
> 
> This is also my first fic, so please go easy on me (but leave feedback if you have any)!

Elide Lochan is used to all kinds of pain, but the burn of whiskey in her throat is refreshingly new.

The women gathered around her laugh as she coughs, the liquid seeming to fight back as it snakes down her throat. Her entire chest warms as her coughing recedes. “That’s a lot – _stronger_ – than I’m used to,” she says, her voice still raspy.

“Go on,” urges the woman beside her, Mary, “Have another sip. It’ll warm you up.”

“Yeah,” chimes in Ella from across the fire, Mary’s equally beautiful sister. The two perform as singers for the troupe Elide and Lorcan are traveling with, though judging from the excitement on men’s faces when they leave the sisters’ tent, Elide suspects they might do a bit more than sing. “No hulking husband to curl up to, now.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Elide says, hoping she sounds like just another woman, jokingly complaining of her husband. This sip goes down easier. As she passes the bottle to Mary, the warmth in her chest spreads to her stomach, her limbs.

Oh, she could get used to this feeling.

She settles in between Mary and an older woman, marked by age but an obvious beauty in her youth. Elide heard Mary call her Helena. She’s from the nearby town, Thredhold, where the troupe has been stationed for the past few days. About half of the women are from the little village. Apparently, Thredhold is a traditional stopover for the performers and some of the older members still have friends in the town.

It had been strange to see villagers rush from their houses and embrace the performers when they first arrived. She and Lorcan had stood to the side and watched friendships blossom around them, as foreign to Elide as Manon’s witch ways or Lorcan’s Fae traditions. Even in Lorcan’s arms – performing their own, practiced act of domesticity – a bolt of loneliness had pierced her heart, making her ache for something…something she couldn’t quite name. 

The women begin to chatter as the bottle passes through them, the campfire growing steadily until it roars to life, a pillar of light against the darkening sky. The tents and wagons are stationed a ways away. Close enough that the women can call for help if they need it, but far enough away that the men left behind can sleep, shielded from the sound of their conversation. Elide fights the urge to look over her shoulder. What’s Lorcan doing? Is he in their tent? Talking with the other men? Maybe he’s taking the opportunity of her absence to slip away with one of the adoring young women who watched his performance tonight.

Elide takes a deep drink as the bottle finds its way back to her. It’s not her place to think of him, to wonder about him, to fuss over him. It’s not her place to feel…feel… _jealousy_. After all, she’s not truly his wife. Truly, she’s… _nothing_ to him.

“How’s your John?” asks one of the troupe’s women. Elide thinks it might be Jessa, a contortionist with a sweet smile, but she can’t be sure. The fire casts strange, dancing shadows over the women on the other side of their circle.

Helena, the town woman beside Elide, laughs before speaking. “As useless as ever,” she says, but there’s no malice to her words.

Elide feels a familiar pang of jealousy as the women laugh, turning their attention to Helena. The women and girls talk to each other with a casualness, an intimacy Elide has never been able to grasp; speaking to other women makes her feel like more of an imposter than any of her lies ever have. Elide thinks she must have missed years’ worth of lessons on how to be a woman while she was locked up in her tower. The way they joke with each other, smiling slyly as if they all know some shared secret, makes her heart ache.

Even if Aelin _is_ restored to power, if Elide somehow regains her rightful title as Lady of Perranth, she suspects there might be some things she’ll never be able to recover. Friendship might be one of them.

Ignoring the pain in her chest, Elide plasters on a grin as she listens to Helena talk.

“All he does is putter around the fields in the morning, tell me what to make for dinner, then wander off to the tavern,” she says raising her voice to be heard over the crackle of the flames, “Then he rolls on home past midnight and has the _audacity_ to tell me to open my legs.”

“Well, _do_ you?” asks Ella, her voice full of laughter and knowledge. Elide suspects she already knows the answer to her question.

“More often than I should,” she says with a sigh. The women around the circle laugh. A grin breaks across the woman’s face as she raises her voice to say, “What? He can’t farm, but he sure knows how to fuck.”

“That’s all I want,” sighs Ella, “I don’t even give a damn if they’re handsome anymore; I just want a man who knows what to do in bed. Is that too much to ask of them?”

“To ask of _men_?” laughs Jessa, “It’s like sitting them in front of a spinning wheel and asking them to turn wool into gold.”

“Exactly,” crows another woman, “They don’t know the first thing about the _spinning_ _wheel_ , much less the wool.”

Another round of raucous laughter; Elide joins in, though she’s lost the thread of the conversation. She thinks they’re talking about sex, though with this all this innuendo she has no way to be sure. Besides, her mind has started feeling…fuzzy. As if her skull is now full of cotton.

“Oh, ladies, did you see the new knife thrower?” says Mary, throwing Elide a sly look as she presses a bottle into her hands. Elide glances at it before taking a sip, surprised to feel the refreshing taste of wine on her tongue instead of the burn of whiskey. She wonders dimly if introducing _more_ drinks to the situation is wise before she realizes they’re speaking of Lorcan.

Which means they will inevitably speak of her.

She passes the bottle along, trying to steel her mind enough to give a coherent answer and put on her mask – bold, enamored wife of a beautiful, solemn man.

Elide tries not to think about the beautiful man in question as the women break into chatter like birdsong about his body, his face, the oiled muscles on display on his little stage.

“Hey, hey, now,” she says, raising her voice. The jealousy isn't difficult to muster. “Mind your tongue; that’s my husband you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on Marion,” says Jessa. In the firelight, her smile is easy and kind. Elide thinks she likes the contortionist. She wishes she knew how to make Jessa like _her_. “You can’t show up with a husband that looks like _that_ and expect all of us to keep our mouths shut. I mean…have you _seen_ him?”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the effect he has on women,” she says, purposefully airy, “Why do you think he loses his shirt every night? Wouldn’t make half as much coin if he got up there and read poetry, would we?”

“I don’t know,” sighs one of the younger village girls, resting her chin on her palm as she stares dreamily into the fire, “I’d pay whatever he asked to watch him do…well, anything.”

The women laugh again, the girl raising her eyes to Elide’s almost guiltily, as if she fears Elide will scold her. She shakes her head, the picture of the confident wife: withstanding their teasing with triumph tucked in her pockets, knowing _she’s_ the one who will be returning to his tent tonight. To his bed.

At least, that’s what these women assume. Elide can see it on their faces as they look at her, expectation glinting bright in their eyes. It’s strange, knowing that these people _want_ her to speak. They _want_ her stories, her gossip, her knowledge.

She fights back a blush; whether from the thought of sharing Lorcan’s bed or the possibility of friendship with these women, she’s not sure.

“Well, tell us _something_ ,” cajoles Mary, giving Elide a too-sharp jab in the ribs. There’s something cutting in the girl’s smile as she says, “Ella wagers he’s gigantic, but I think he’s probably tiny. Must be hiding _something_ , to settle for a fortune teller when he could have a singer.”

“Mary!” Ella chides, but before the insult can even set in, Mary has her arm thrown around Elide.

“Oh, she knows I’m kidding,” Mary insists. There’s a ripple of laughter from the women, though the sound has an edge to it now. They heard the insult in Mary’s words, same as Ella, and now they’re waiting for Elide’s response. Before she can give one, though, Mary goes back in for the kill. “I mean, they _do_ say plain girls are always…surprising in bed. Is it true, Marion? Are you secretly a mountain cat between the sheets?”

Mary says the words like a joke – and they elicit laughter, as they were meant to – but her eyes cut into Elide like a blade. She means every word she said.

“Oh, he’s as big as you can imagine,” Elide says, laughing easily as she slides out of Mary’s embrace, “I about fainted the first night he pulled it out. Thought it’d kill me, truthfully.” She grins at the crowd, half-embarrassed, half-proud. The perfect mask to hide the shame burning alongside the whiskey in her blood. Then, airily, as she takes another sip: “But for him, I was quite the willing martyr.”

Howls of laughter. Someone reaches over to slap her shoulder, halfway between chiding and encouraging.

“So he’s as good as he looks?” asks some eager voice, a town girl.

Confusion snags Elide as she passes the whiskey bottle to an open, waiting hand. Lorcan certainly doesn’t _look_ good. Terrifying? Yes. Beautiful? Yes. Thrilling? …Yes. Over the past few months, Elide has begun to suspect that he _is_ good - or, at least, better than he'd have you think - but he certainly doesn’t _look_ it.

Or do they mean something different when they say good?

Oh, it’s all too confusing, especially with her head becoming lighter and lighter with every passing moment.

Still, it wouldn’t do for a wife to tell friends that her husband looks like a bloodthirsty warrior out of a legend. So, she says, “Oh, he’s far kinder than you’d think. Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s actually…” She leans closer to the fire, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “A big sweetheart.”

“No!”

“Oh, pet names, cuddling, _everything_ ,” she says, letting her daydreams embellish her story for her, “Always taking care of my ankle. Fussing when I have my cycle. It’s true, I swear to Anneith.”

Some of the women jokingly refuse to believe it, while the infatuated village girl turns her eyes skyward, as if praying for a husband like Lorcan. The thought of someone praying for a sullen, sulking asshole like Lorcan almost makes Elide snort. Ella and Jessa grin at each other, and Elide makes a mental note to herself to warn Lorcan about this little embellishment of hers – as they’re sure to mention it to him – but her mind is increasingly hazy as another bottle is handed to her. The wine is almost gone. _These women must be thirsty_ , she thinks to herself as she finishes off the bottle.

“She means,” says Mary sharply, “Is he good in _bed_?” Elide has the sudden urge to shove her off the log she’s sitting on. It’s obvious she has her eyes on Lorcan, and though Elide has no _real_ claim to him she resents the open desire in Mary’s eyes.

For the sake of their charade, of course.

“I mean, look at him,” Elide says, giving a shrug that’s almost cocky, though she’s still not sure exactly what they’re talking about. The burning in Mary’s eyes makes her grin.

Helena presses her shoulder to Elide’s. “Come on, tell us something dirtier than that,” she says, almost conspiratorially. There’s a cackle from somewhere in the crowd. Helena must be known for this – an instigator. 

“Like what?” says Elide, playing at being innocent. Pretending to be experienced pretending to be innocent.

 _I can’t wait for a life without lies_ , she thinks, repressing an exhausted sigh.

“Well…” says the woman, glancing at her rapt audience. All the women seem to be sitting on the edges of their seats, laughter growing on their faces as they await the next joke. The next lewd surprise. “If he’s such a _sweetheart_ , he must be attentive. Which is best: his fingers, his tongue, or this cock you’re so proud of?”

Elide’s grateful for the roar of laughter and admonitions that rise from the crowd. She laughs with them, hoping they attribute the flush on her cheeks to the drinks, not her embarrassment. What does that question even _mean_? Surely they’re talking about sex – it seems to be the only thing anyone wants to talk about – but what do fingers and tongues have to do with it?

She doesn’t let the uncertainty cross her carefully constructed mask, though, as the noise dies down. Elide grins in a guilty way, as if she _should_ be ashamed of herself but likes the attention – even though every shy bone in her body is screaming for her to get back to the tent and away from these expectant faces – before saying, “Well, his cock, of course.”

It’s the only part of the woman’s question she understood; of course… _that part_ …matters in sex. Or, at least, women and their whispers seem to think so.

She’s grateful when the appreciative laughter at her answer dies down and the conversation moves on to some village boy Jessa noticed tonight; she’s even more grateful for the next sip of whiskey. And the next. And the next. She’s grateful for the warmth in her mind and her chest, the haziness that lets her believe – even if only for an hour or two – that these women could be her friends. That when Mary tucks a lock of her hair over her shoulder the girl means it. That this – easy conversation, laughing too loudly, rude jokes, a man waiting for her to come home – could be her life one day.

And every time the reasonable part of her mind reminds her that this can _never_ be her life, she takes another mind-numbing sip.

* * *

Lorcan never has trouble sleeping. Falling asleep has always come easy to him and he’s been sleeping through his nightmares for centuries.

But tonight, in this empty tent, he can’t sleep.

He blames the noise of the women as he rolls over, flinging his blanket over his head, though its threadbare fabric does nothing to hide the sound of their cackling and shrill voices. _Like crows_ , he thinks bitterly as he lays on his bedroll, _If only I had a crossbow, I could shoo them back to bed._

Lorcan has no idea how long they’ve been at it. They started right after their performances finished. He’d watched from his stage, still sweaty and breathless from knife-throwing, as one of the girls from the troupe grabbed Elide’s wrist as she left her fortune telling wagon and excitedly muttered something in her ear. He noticed the little notch of worry appear between her brows as she considered whatever the girl - Mary, Lorcan thinks - had told her. Something almost like relief had washed through him at the sight, confident that she was going to decline whatever the girl had offered.

Elide hadn’t even glanced his way, though, before she nodded. The grin she plastered on her face was so bright Lorcan couldn’t even tell if it was for show as the girl led her away.

He hated how weak he felt, seeking out one of the other performers to ask where the women were going.

“Ah, they’ve got a bunch of friends in this town,” the man, Tom, had told him, “Have a little ‘party’ every time we stop here; at least, that’s what _they_ call it. It’s really just an excuse to drink and talk about their latest conquests.”

Lorcan didn’t return the man’s smile, no matter how many times Elide told him to be more personable to the other performers. What was _Elide_ doing there, then? She didn’t know any of those women.

“Oh, they took your wife, did they?” said Tom, slapping a hand on Lorcan’s shoulder and giving him a commiserating look, “Don’t worry – they’ll get her good and drunk for you. Always nicer in the sack when they’ve got some liquor in ‘em, hm?”

Tom didn’t look offended when the warrior shook off the touch; the obliviousness made Lorcan want to hit him even more than he already did.

 _She’s not my wife_ , Lorcan reminded himself, glancing at the crowd of women forming outside of the borders of the camp, _It’s not my job to defend her fucking honor_.

So when Lorcan shot a glare at Tom and muttered, “ _Never_ speak of my wife that way again”, it didn’t have anything to do with Elide, of course. Lorcan was just keeping up his act as a protective husband.

He left Tom shaking where he stood and took the longer way to his tent, watching the women build up a fire, dragging logs and cushions out to form seats around it. Elide was easy to spot; Lorcan only had to look for the tiniest woman in the crowd to find her. Her faded gray dress – the only one she has besides that ridiculous fortune-telling costume – is like a beacon to his eyes now. Lorcan had almost hoped to see distress on her face; he'd searched for any reason to call her back to the tent, but she'd been smiling and talking. Elide hadn't even glanced toward the camp. Hadn't even looked for him.

Since then, Lorcan has sat in their tent. He ate his dinner and bathed, reveling in the privacy and the blessed, _miraculous_ silence. He had gone to bed earlier than usual, sure that Elide's absence would mean an even quicker path to sleep. No ridiculous small talk or startling awake at every twitch and sudden movement she makes in her sleep, his ears primed to hear the beginnings of a nightmare.

So, _finally_ , he could have a good night’s sleep.

If those damned women would just go the _fuck_ to bed.

How many hours has she been out there? Midnight must be fast approaching – if it hasn’t already passed – and they’ve been at it since sunset. From the growing volume of their conversation – conversation which he can hear in painful detail, thanks to those damned Fae ears – he can tell they’re well in their cups.

He wonders if Elide’s drinking, too. Lorcan chuckles to himself, imagining the high-and-mighty, saintly Elide _drunk_. Precious Elide, stumbling and slurring and…

Lorcan sits up, rubbing a hand along his jaw, trying to imagine whether or not Elide’s ever been drunk before. Before he met her, he assumed _everyone_ had done _everything_ ; after five hundred years of life, it’s hard to imagine that some people are still experiencing firsts. But knowing Elide, she might have gone her whole life without anything stronger than watered down ale at taverns, much less whatever carnival swill these performers have gotten their hands on.

As much as she loves control, he can only imagine how horrified Elide would be if she made a fool of herself while drunk. Part of him wants to let her humiliate herself – after all, she’s a grown woman who _chose_ to drink – but a much louder part of himself screams at him to go out there and _get her_.

He realizes with a start that it’s been at least an hour since he’s heard Elide speak; after her conversation about his… _assets_ …she’d been relatively quiet. After that, he’d been subjected to the petty gossip of Thredhold’s laundresses and housewives along with the troupe’s women’s opinion of every man they’ve ever tumbled.

But now that the thought of a drunk Elide has firmly lodged itself in his mind, Lorcan knows there’s no use in trying to sleep. With a groan, Lorcan buries his face in his hands and focuses on the conversation at the fire. Someone’s laughing so loudly it hurts his skull, while at least three other women talk over each other.

But no Elide. He can’t even hear her laugh when one of the girls makes a joke.

 _That’s it_ , he thinks, _That’s_ enough.

Lorcan shoves on a shirt, planning the tongue lashing he’s going to give Elide when he finds her. Why would she just _wander_ off with a girl she _barely knows_? Without even telling him?

Not that that matters. He’s not her real husband, of course. But for appearance’s sake, at least, she should have at least _told_ him where she was going. Besides, there’s the issue of the deadly monsters tracking them, too.

As he stalks out of the tent towards the campfire, he attributes his frustration to lack of sleep, his irritation to her folly. Nothing deeper than that. Certainly nothing like _concern_.

The women don’t notice him until he’s almost upon them. It’s a wonder the Ilken haven’t snuck up and torn them all to pieces; they’re certainly all too drunk to notice anything approaching. Some woman he doesn’t recognize spots him first, pointing and laughing. Too excited or drunk to say anything, apparently.

“Where’s my wife?” he says, resisting the urge to start growling out threats as they start to titter amongst themselves.

“ _This_ is _her_ husband?” says an older woman. A stranger. Probably from the town. She shrugs toward a tiny figure leaned against her and – oh, Hellas be damned.

Elide.

“Your wife’s a lightweight,” laughs a familiar voice. He glances towards the source of the voice to find Mary batting her eyes at him. Or, at least, attempting to. Lorcan crouches by the sleeping Elide, shooting Mary a quick glare before turning Elide’s face towards his.

“I know,” he grinds out, tapping a finger to Elide’s cheek. Then, forcing himself to soften his voice, forcing himself to make some attempt as husband-like tenderness, says, “Marion. _Marion_. Wake up. It’s time to go.”

Her eyes slowly flutter open, hazy and unfocused before they find his face. A lazy smile curls on her lips – so bright and genuine and _soft_ it does something to Lorcan’s stomach – as she meets his gaze.

Perhaps some of the meat he ate for dinner had gone bad.

But then she whispers, as happy as he’s ever heard her, “ _Lor_ can!” She raises a hand and strokes a finger along his cheekbone as if she’s never seen his face before. As if he’s a friend she’s _excited_ to see.

His stomach twists again.

 _Definitely_ food poisoning.

“You drank too much, again, hm?” he says, attempting to sound like a chiding husband as he slips an arm under her knees and braces the other against her back.

She only sighs in response as he picks her up, instantly snaking her arm along his shoulders.

“Ah, don’t take her away,” says the older woman, patting the seat Elide just vacated, “Come, sit. Stay a while. We don’t bite, dear.”

“Speak for yourself, Helena,” says Mary, gazing at Lorcan from under her thick lashes.

“You let her outdrink herself,” he says, “You should have brought her to me hours ago.”

“What an _attentive_ husband,” says Helena, cocking her head as if considering the couple in front of her, “What an odd couple.”

Lorcan remembers the way they teased Elide earlier, how that instinctual protectiveness had tightened in his chest when Mary called her plain. Elide had laughed it off with that easy grace he has come to envy, turning the insult into a joke. Turning Mary into nothing more than a petty bully in front of the group.

He’d smiled to himself in his tent, hearing her defend herself.

But now they were trying to insinuate the same thing – except this time, Elide isn’t here to choke them with their own words.

“Come, sit,” entreats Mary, her voice overly sweet, “Tell us how you ended up choosing this one as a wife.”

 _This one_.

That’s what does it. Maybe it’s the frustration of losing sleep or the general anger at being _here_ – trailing after Elide, when he should be back in Doranelle with his queen – but Mary’s veiled sneer as she nods at the girl in his arms breaks any of his remaining resolve.

“I chose her as my wife because she is good. And kind. And sweet,” he says icily, “And _beautiful_ in a way you can never hope to be. Because you will lose your beauty when your tits start to sag and lines grow around your eyes. The beauty of _this one_ will never fade.”

It’s the most he’s spoken to anyone other than Elide since he’s joined the troupe and he sees surprise register on every face in the circle. Even the drunkest of them has gone quiet to listen to him.

He turns and heads to their tent before any of them can think up a retort. Elide shifts in his arms, watching him. She looks more lucid than he expected.

“Did the great Lorcan Salvaterre just _defend me_?” she says, her voice lilting and soft in a way that makes his stomach hurt again, “You should be nicer to her, you know. She really…really likes you.”

“You drank too much, Elide,” he mutters, ignoring her, “What were you _thinking_?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. Or as much of a shrug as she can manage while in his arms. Her little body – so much softer than he imagined – pressed against him, her head almost nestled against his shoulder. She plays with the collar of his shirt, her nails brushing lightly against his collarbone. “I thought I’d make friends. You know that word, Lorcan? _Friends_?”

She reaches up to poke his cheek, but he leans his head back. He doesn’t think he can stand it if she runs another finger along his skin. Her touch had been so gentle it hurt, so tender and… _caring_ it made something in his chest ache. “Stop that,” he snaps, but his tone - which has commanded battlefields, leveled cities so old they would make her tiny lifespan seem like the blink of an eye – only makes her laugh. An undignified laugh. Almost a snort.

Lorcan’s glad it’s dark; if she saw the grin tugging at his lips he’d never hear the end of it.

 _Hellas, I need sleep_ , he thinks, ducking into their tent. He sets her down on her rickety, collapsible cot, careful not to brush against any of her more sensitive parts. Elide makes it difficult, though, clinging to him like a needy child.

“Let _go_ , Elide,” he growls, using the meanest, cruelest voice he can muster.

She giggles at him.

 _Giggles_.

After a moment of extricating her arms from around his neck, he crosses to the end of the tent and lights their lamp. He turns back to find her watching him, her lips – pinker than normal, he notices – slightly parted, her eyes glazed.

“Just how much did you drink?” he sighs, taking his normal seat on the ground, softened by his bedroll.

“I don’t know,” she says, propping her head up on her palm. At this angle, their gaze is level, for once. He doesn’t have to stoop down and she doesn’t have to crane her neck up. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you? Oh, Lorcan, don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to get – to get _drunk_. Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yes, Elide, I’d say you’re drunk,” he snaps, but the pitiful look in her eyes only worsens. Her lips turn down in a frown that would be comical if it didn’t look so genuine. “I’m not… _angry_. But I didn’t think you were this careless.”

“I didn’t go to _drink_ ,” she huffs, “I just wanted to make friends. But they were – they were kind of…kind of _rude_ , Lorcan. And when I told them I didn’t want to drink anymore, they made me keep going. I really didn’t want to get drunk. I swear it.”

There’s so much he wants to say. There’s so much he _doesn’t_ want to say. More than anything, he just wants to sleep. But one look at the gleam in his eyes tells him he won’t be going to bed anytime soon.

“I’m not blaming you,” he says eventually. Is that relief that crosses her face? Surely not. Besides, if it was, it’s only because she’s drunk. Elide has made it very clear what she thinks of her travel companion. “And yes. They were rude. Not _kind of_. Just rude.”

“You heard?” she asks, a blush climbing its way up her already flushed cheeks.

“They’re bitches, Elide, all of them.”

“It’s not polite to call women that, Lorcan!”

“Fine, they’re bastards. Dicks. Assholes.”

She raises a hand to her mouth, giggling again. “I guess you’re right,” she sighs after the laughing fit has passed. Elide leans back, propping herself up on her arms behind her. “I just thought…”

Lorcan knows what she thought. He’s seen her loneliness in the way she watches the other performers interact, in the way she curves in on herself as she sleeps.

“There are better friends out there than people like that,” he says, “Trust me.”

“Oh, really?” she says, grinning at him. Hellas, has she ever looked at him like that before? Truly, not as one of her masquerades? “Are you speaking from experience? Tell me of _your_ friends.”

Lorcan thinks of Whitethorn, Gavriel, the twins, Vaughn. Could they be counted as friends? He doesn’t know. Maybe they’re as close as _Lorcan_ can get to friendship, but they’re not the type of friends Elide wants. She deserves something…different. Better.

She laughs again, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling of the tent as if she can see the stars through the canvas. Her little look of victory riles him; he knows he shouldn’t give in when she baits him – it doesn’t set a good precedent – but she won’t remember this in the morning. Surely it won’t hurt to be a bit more…open. At least for tonight.

Just to entertain himself, of course.

“You gave me quite the compliment earlier,” he says, nodding in the direction of the campfire. She snaps her head back up, eyes wide and cheeks red. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Damn you and those stupid ears!” she says, launching a clumsy kick his way which he dodges with ease, “You heard… _all_ of that?”

“Every word,” he says, “I tuned out once Jessa started talking about Tom’s dick.”

She stammers for a moment, that little crease reappearing between her brows. He’s started looking forward to seeing that wrinkle – as long as he’s the one putting it there, that is. It means he’s succeeding in teasing her.

“I was just keeping up our act,” she says, attempting to seem unbothered. She’s not as good a liar when she’s drunk, he realizes with a flicker of excitement. Her heartbeat ratchets up to a wild rhythm. “You know, I did you a favor. It would have been just as easy for me to tell them you had a…a… _you know_ , the size of bean. I was defending your honor.”

“Oh, what a noble wife you are,” he chuckles, enjoying the color rising on her cheeks, her neck, all the way down to the top of her chest exposed by her dress. He quickly raises his gaze, something almost like shame tickling his conscious. “Defending your husband against the rumor mill.”

“Well, I told them you were a cuddler and a sweet talker,” she says, “Couldn’t let you off that easy.”

“Oh, yes,” he says drily, “I heard that, too. I suppose I have to start calling you _pet names_ now?”

She flinches at the disgust in his voice. The expression is so unguarded, so genuine he almost regrets his tone.

Almost.

“No,” she says, focusing on her hands in her lap, “No, they think it’s some...private...thing between us.”

“Who knew women liked to talk so dirty,” he says, changing the subject, “I’m surprised at you.”

It’s all too easy to hurt Elide’s feeling and send her into a bristling silence; most days, he says something hurtful just to make her get out of his way. But tonight, drunk for the first time in her young life, Lorcan thinks she deserves to feel…feel…happy.

Besides, he’d rather see her blush and squirm than ignore him with those icy glares of hers.

“I had to and you know it,” she says, “And I think I did pretty well for a vir-”

She stops halfway through her sentence, pursing her lips and casting him a questioning glance.

“Elide, I know you’re a virgin,” he says, wanting to laugh, but his voice comes out softer than he meant it to. Strange. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He hardens his voice, as if he’s chastising her again. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You know that.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, buoyed easily by the slightest reassurance from him. He’s a little frightened by the hold he seems to have over her moods. “I’m quite proud, actually.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ girls.”

“What girls?” she asks, defensively.

“The type that look down on other girls for having sex,” he says, “Pretty, pious, pure little Elide – so much better than everyone else, is that it?”

Her face hardens before his eyes. All the soft openness being drunk lent her disappears, like shutters closing over a window. He knows he’s said something very, very wrong as she straightens her posture, throwing those shoulders back like she does before a tongue lashing.

“Every time a man has spoken to me of sex, _Lorcan_ ,” – she says his name like a curse; he almost flinches – “It has been as a threat. ‘ _Quit talking in there, before I come give your mouth something better to do.’ ‘Better mind your Uncle, girl, or he’ll let me have a go at you.' 'That ankle won’t be the reason you can’t walk after_ me.'" 

“That’s enough.” Her voice was rising and rising, threat after threat spilling out of her mouth with no hesitation. No lies. No acting. Just memories.

No wonder she has so many nightmares.

“Elide, I…”

She’s silent for a moment, but he has nothing else to say. What _can_ he say? He can give her no comfort, no reassurance, no promises or vows. Nothing a girl like her would want. But Elide doesn’t seem to be waiting for him.

“I wish I could talk about it the way they do,” she says, in a curious tone. Her anger gone so quickly he might have doubted it’d ever been there in the first place if it weren’t for the ache in his chest it left behind. “Happy and joking and peaceful. I don’t understand how they…I mean, they actually…”

She shakes her head, glancing up from her hands to briefly meet his gaze, and says, “I wish I could _want_ it the way they do.”

A familiar violent, protective instinct tugs at him. He wants to track down every man who ever threatened her, leered at her, _touched_ her and wipe them out of existence. Use five hundred years’ experience of inflicting pain to make them pay for what they did. He wants to travel to every city and town she’ll ever pass through and threaten every man he sees. He wants to guarantee her a life of happiness and peace; a life where she feels safe enough to _want_ sex. To want _anything_.

But he can’t do either. He has Maeve to think of and Whitethorn’s bitch queen in the south. Of Morath and Doranelle.

Somehow, all that seems distant and small as he looks up at the sadness etched on Elide’s round face. It feels as if everything else is…unimportant.

“You did do well,” he says, grasping at _something_ to say, “Answering. As a virgin. Like you said.”

“Thanks,” she says, a smile tugging at a corner of her lips, “I had no idea what half of them were talking about, though. Good thing I have such a knack for bullshitting.”

Lorcan knits his brow, confused. He replays the conversation in his mind. They never talked about anything that should have been too foreign to her. Overall, the conversation had been pretty tame, no matter how raunchy the women considered themselves to be. They hadn’t touched on a _fraction_ of what Lorcan has experienced in his life.

Though after five centuries, one _does_ have to get creative.

“What do you mean?”

“You really want me to ask you about sex?” she asks, doubtfully, teasingly, her smile spreading to the rest of her face now. He looks away, chastising himself for noticing how her eyes brighten. _She’s nothing to you_ , he reminds himself, though it takes him a moment to look in her eyes again.

“Elide, there’s absolutely no way you’re remembering this in the morning,” he says, fighting back a quirk of his lips when she laughs, “Ask away.”

“Well, I…well, when they asked that question,” she says, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Her large, onyx eyes meet his and suddenly his mouth is dry. Must be the rancid meat.

“What question?”

“You know… _that_ question?” she prompts, her blush returning.

“I don’t remember,” he presses, enjoying watching her squirm. Usually so confident, composed. Undone by a simple question. This is the type of conquest he prefers – much easier than taking battlefields. “Refresh my memory.”

“You absolute ass,” she says, spitting the word through gritted teeth. He watches as she takes a deep breath, throws those shoulders back, and says, “She asked me if I preferred your fingers, your tongue, or your…”

“Go on.”

“Lorcan!” she whines.

“Oh, is this the great Elide Lochan _begging_?”

He regrets the words immediately – and the images they conjure.

Elide, ready and willing and panting beneath him. Every sweet curve of hers pressed against every ragged edge of his. Cheeks flushed like they are now. Carefully braided hair undone, fanned out around her head like a halo. Elide, touching his cheekbone like that. Like he’s something precious. Breakable. To be handled with care.

Elide, begging. Elide, whispering his name. Elide, clinging to him like she needs him.

Elide. 

_That’s enough!_ He tells himself, giving his head a sharp shake as if he could physically dislodge the images from the depths of his mind. How long has it been since he’s taken someone to bed? He does a mental count of the weeks; it must have been back in Rifthold.

 _You’re just missing a good fuck, that’s all_ , he tells himself, though a much more reasonable voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s gone years without even a kiss before, never tempted by the most delectable Fae women Doranelle had to offer. Truthfully, Lorcan had started to think he’d outgrown the near-constant lust of his youth, that sex must lost its appeal after so many years. By now, it’s become little more than a pastime, something to be done when the opportunity presents itself, not something to be dreamed about, sought out.

It’s been too many years to count since he’s actually _wanted_ a woman.

But these past few weeks in close quarters with this infuriatingly tiny, alluringly stubborn women has reawakened some long-dormant beast within him and no matter how much he tries to club it away, it refuses to sleep again.

Oblivious to the warfare being waged in Lorcan’s mind – which is all her fault anyway, he thinks bitterly – Elide continues on, unaware. She sets her lips in a hard line, determination filling her still-unfocused eyes. “She _asked_ if I preferred your fingers, your tongue, or your _cock_ , you surly lump of coal.”

“Lump of coal?” he says, “That’s new.”

“Can you be serious?” she says, trying to kick him again. This time he catches her foot – the unmarred one – and starts on her laces. Her fingers, usually so nimble, won’t be able to handle this tonight. _Just a favor_ , he tells himself. He’s grateful Elide can’t hear his heartbeat start to race as his fingers brush the skin of her calf. “I’m being _vulnerable_ , Lorcan.”

“Fine,” he says, pretending that word doesn’t pierce him in a way it definitely shouldn’t. He doesn’t like to think of her as vulnerable; to a soldier, that means weak, unprotected. Prey. He pushes the thought away, pushes away the instinct to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe from the cruelty of the world that awaits her. “Ask your question.”

“Well,” she says again, shifting on her little bed. He finishes unlacing the boot and slides it off her foot as she continues, “What do fingers and tongues have to do with sex? The other part…I mean, I understand _that_ at least.”

He blinks at her, waiting for her to finish her joke. But she just keeps staring at him with that embarrassed, expectant, fucking _defiant_ face.

 _She’s being serious_.

Lorcan seriously considers just laying down and going to sleep, ignoring her question. But that look. She needs an answer. Who knows who might tell her – and _what_ they might tell her – if not him.

 _Have some fucking self-restraint_ , he tells himself. After all, he’s a soldier, a warrior, a _legend_. He can put aside his lust-fueled dreams and stop wondering what she tastes like to help his…friend. No, not friend. _Acquaintance._

“Well, how graphic would you like me to be?”

“Oh, Lorcan!” she snaps, turning her eyes to her feet, watching with a heavy, drunk gaze as he sets her boot down and strips off her stocking, “Don’t be lewd.”

He almost scoffs. This coming from the girl who so confidently proclaimed the wonders of his cock just an hour before.

“Me?” he says, “You’re the one asking me all these perverted questions, Elide.”

“Well, I never would have asked if I knew you’d mock me,” she sighs dramatically, making a feeble effort to wrench her other foot out of his grasp.

“No, no, I’m not mocking,” he says, starting on the laces, careful to keep his magic braced against her ankle, “I’ll say it this way…There are many ways for a man to bring a woman pleasure without ever unbuttoning his pants.”

“Oh,” she says, her brow knitting in confusion, “You mean…you mean…fingers…and _tongue_ …down there?”

He nods, fighting the grin rising on his lips. Fighting the images rising in his mind: his own fingers slipping up that skirt, his own tongue tasting her. What sounds would she make? Would she grab him, beg him, say his name, or stay silent? Is she as sweet as he suspects she must be?

“Oh,” she repeats, bringing him back to reality “ _Oh._ ”

“You know, a woman can do the same for a man,” he continues evenly, pretending not to notice the way she squirms under his touch, “With her hand or mouth…”

It is easier to keep these images at bay. In all the times he's imagined Elide falling into his arms, her pretty, pink lips do nothing but kiss him. Her hands do nothing but twine in his hair. As much as he wants her, Lorcan can't imagine asking _that_ of her. No, he'd teach her how to find _her_ pleasure first, and take his damn sweet time to do it.

“Oh, I know about that,” she says, voice strained even as she tries to hide it.

 _How does she know about that?_ he wonders, surprised, before the memory of her quoting those guards hits him like a physical blow. When did these threats start – when she was a child? And – Hellas forbid – did they ever make good on them? What an injustice, that she should know all the ways a woman can pleasure a man and none of the ways a man could please her. No wonder she fears sex.

“But, Lorcan, I’m confused,” she says, musingly, as he slips the shoe off her foot.

“Well, when a man loves a woman very much, he puts his tongue on her –“

“Lorcan!” She lands a solid, stockinged kick on his chest with all the force of an angry lamb. He bites back a chuckle. “I’m confused about what you _said_. About…about pleasure.”

“How?” he says, peeling her sock off her foot. He’s gotten used to the sight of her mangled ankle but it still fills him with a rage he can’t quite justify. Lorcan’s seen wounds far worse than this, many of them given by his own hand. She hisses and he realizes he let his magic slip. Quickly, he replaces the brace on her foot.

“I didn’t know…I didn’t think…” she says, wringing her hands in her lap, “Women can…women can enjoy sex?”

_Oh, Hellas below._

“Elide,” he says, too sharp by far judging by the way she flinches. Gritting his teeth, refusing to indulge in the thoughts that clamor at his mind, he softens his voice to say, “Women can enjoy sex just as much as men – some even think they enjoy it _more_. When it’s done right, of course.”

“But…but…they don’t _need_ to, do they?” she says, face still scrunched up in confusion, “I mean, not like men do?”

“ _Need_ to?”

“Well, men need to…to…to enjoy sex…for making babies.”

“Oh, for Hellas’ sake, Elide, not everything is about _babies_ ,” he says, “Is that what you think sex is for? _Just_ babies?”

“That and to…to please men,” she says with a shrug, “I thought…I thought sex was just a hurtle women had to jump to get babies. Like a trade. The terrible for the amazing.”

He gapes at her, oblivious of his surprise.

What a life she must have led, to make her such an optimistic cynic, such a hopeful, pessimistic, kind, resilient person.

“But those women out there – you said yourself they talk like they want sex,” he says, leaning back on his hands and watching her, “You thought they were all lying to you?”

She shrugs again, bordering on defensive. “I thought when you – _if_ you – love a man, you just…make that sacrifice. Like cooking his favorite dinner even if you’d rather have something else.”

He scoffs, loosing a single, humorless chuckle. “Don’t laugh at me,” she says softly, though she doesn’t sound hurt – not like before – as she swings out a bare foot to gently kick his knee.

Lorcan is overcome with the urge to grab her good ankle and run his hand up that beautiful leg before pulling her into him. Making her _safe_ as he learned the feel of her flesh against his palms, as he taught her every gentle, soft, sweet thing he knows. He wants to make her happy. He wants to make her laugh. He wants to make her come underneath him, clinging to his shoulders and kissing his collarbones, running her nimble fingers through his hair, touching his face like she did at the campfire.

He is struck by just how much he wants to _kiss_ her.

It’s been centuries since he actually wanted to kiss a woman.

“I never laugh at you,” he says. If she notices the new rasp in his voice she doesn’t show it.

“Liar,” she laughs.

There’s a moment of silence that’s a bit too warm for him. He opens his mouth to make at some half-assed attempt at comfort when she says, her voice unusually quiet, “Lorcan?”

“Hm?”

“What… _is_ sex for, if it’s not about making babies?”

He cocks his head, considering her. That blush has returned, making his stomach tighten. Lorcan pretends to be unbothered, untouched by her vulnerability, by the way she’s shifting on the bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs as if…

“People don’t fuck for just one reason,” he says, enjoying how her eyes widen when he curses, “Wives and husbands fuck because it’s tradition. Young people fuck because they’re curious and lusty and scared. Some people fuck for money. Some people fuck out of anger. Some people fuck because they care about each other, because they want to make each other feel good – women included.”

“Why do you fuck, Lorcan?” she says, voice wavering even as she attempts to be brash, “Anger? Money? _Love_?”

“Did you just call me a whore?” he says, with a surprised laugh. She bites back a grin, obviously attempting to mirror his stern expression as she nods. “Elide, I fuck because in my five hundred years, I’ve discovered there are few better sights than a woman coming undone beneath me.”

Lorcan watches in wonder as Elide’s eyes grow wider and wider as he speaks. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. The only noise she makes is something suspiciously like a squeak.

He smiles, proud of himself as a blush climbs up her cheek and rushes down her neck. The surprise in her eyes turns to something else as she claps a hand over her mouth.

“Elide?” he asks, instantly on his feet as she stands, struggling to gain her balance.

“Lorcan –” she says, her voice strangled, and he knows instantly what’s wrong.

He braces an arm around her waist and hurries her across the tent. She narrowly makes it three steps past the tent’s entrance before emptying her stomach on the grass. Lorcan grabs her braid as she vomits, weakly trying to escape from his grip.

“Don’t look,” she whimpers as her body convulses.

“I’ve seen much worse than a little vomit, Elide,” he mutters, placing a hand on her back.

He’s seen people comfort each other after a hard night of drinking – men running their hands up and down their woman’s back, murmuring sweet nothings, fetching her water and rags and hurrying her to bed.

But Lorcan’s hands aren’t made for comfort. They’re made for bloodletting, for pain, for killing. So he holds her braid, running a thumb along the soft, shining strands of her hair, and plants a firm hand on her back.

There’s a distant cheer from the women still remaining around the campfire as they spot Elide. She whimpers again; she doesn’t have to speak for him to understand she’s embarrassed. He takes a wide step to hide her from view of the women.

Elide glances up at him, shame and gratitude in her tear-filled eyes, but he just shakes his head. The thought of Elide being _grateful_ to him makes him distinctly uncomfortable.

They stand that way for ten more minutes. Elide tries to straighten up and head inside several times, but Lorcan stops her. “Get it all out,” he said, his voice low and even, “I don’t want to wake up with you retching in my face later.”

“Lorcan!” she mutters, frustrated, before bending over and retching again.

Once he finally lets her back inside, she sits on the bed and buries her face in her hands.

He glances at her as he fills a tin cup with water from the basin at the mouth of the tent. A tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Feel better?” he says.

“This is mortifying.”

“I’ve ended too many nights emptying my guts in alleyways, Elide,” he says, crouching by the bed to hand her the water, “Do you know how much you have to drink to make a _Fae_ throw up?”

“An ungodly amount?” she guesses, peering at him through her fingers.

“A _mortifying_ amount,” he says, “Here. Drink up. And wipe your face.”

He hands her a rag before busying himself with shrugging off his shirt again. If the drink didn’t make her tired, the exertion of throwing up certainly did. He suspects sleep will be coming for her soon.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “Are you…are you angry?”

He hates how ashamed she sounds. How small her voice is. How… _scared_ she sounds.

“I’m only angry that you’ve kept me up half the night,” he says, taking the cup and refilling it, “And that talk of my sex life made you empty your stomach.”

“It wasn’t that,” she murmurs, that delightful blush returning, “I was…that was…it wasn’t that.”

“You really are a lightweight,” he chuckles, sitting on his bedroll, ignoring her stammering.

“Are you surprised?” she asks, but all the levity from earlier is gone from her voice.

He shouldn’t be as disappointed as he is. It’s not like she was flirting with him – and even if she had been, he wouldn’t have been able to respond. She’s _drunk_. Lorcan shakes his head again, as if clearing his thoughts. This was the reminder he needed – that she needs him to take care of her while she’s vulnerable and _only then_. She doesn’t want him. She doesn’t need him. She doesn’t even like him.

The thought shouldn’t hurt him as much as it does.

“I think it’s time you go to sleep,” he says as she fights through a yawn, trying to hide it from him.

“Aren’t you a little proud, Lorcan?” she says. He can tell she’s pretending to be her usual, composed self. A glimmer of shame remains in her eyes. “Got drunk all on my own?”

“Yes, very proud,” he mutters, nudging her feet, “You’d take the dance halls of Doranelle by storm, Elide.”

Begrudgingly, she swings her legs up onto the bed. Elide moves with the heavy, slow movements of a child, trying to force her bare feet under the blanket. With a scoff, Lorcan leans over her and untangles her from the sheets. She sighs as she settles in, those big brown eyes meeting his as he gently pulls the blanket up, making sure her shoulders are covered.

“Do you feel all right?” he asks, “Do you need more water? Warm enough?”

Lorcan is distantly aware that he should be ashamed of coddling her like this; he can only imagine how the cadre would react to find him hunched over this plain, little mortal woman, concerned that her lips are a shade paler than usual.

“I’m good,” she says, struggling to extricate her arm from the blanket, “Thank you for…for taking care of me, Lorcan. Other men might have…”

Lorcan shakes his head as she trails off, wishing desperately he was as gifted with words as Fenrys. Or Gavriel. Hell, he’d even take Whitethorn’s taciturn bluntness over his own talent for silence.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to speak. She raises that free arm slowly, slowly towards his face, eyes staring into his. As if waiting for him to tell her to stop. He knows he should but…

He doesn’t.

He can’t. 

He doesn’t want to.

Her fingers brush over his cheek like feathers, barely a touch. Lorcan closes his eyes as Elide’s gaze begins to rove over his face in that way of hers, as if she’s seeing things no one else ever has, learning some ancient, dead language in his eyes. He can’t repress the shiver that runs through him as her touch becomes more confident, tracing a line up his cheek, then down his jaw.

Lorcan knows he should tell her to stop. He should grab her hand and put it back under her blanket and say something horrible and cruel to keep this kindness – this softness he doesn’t deserve – at bay. He should tell her to go to sleep and turn off the lantern and lay down.

But it’s been so long since someone was gentle with him. It’s been so long since someone looked at him like anything more than a warrior.

Her hand leaves his cheek and he opens his eyes, disappointment piercing through him. But she’s still looking at him with that tender curiosity that makes his heart beat faster than any battle ever has. A tiny smile tugging at her lips, she brushes a strand of hair behind his ear.

He watches her, trying to summon up the resolve to end this, when her hand floats down to his chin. She runs her thumb along a scar he knows is there, that little notch appearing between her brows. Lorcan doesn’t fight it when he smiles.

He has to admit, he’s grown rather fond of that little notch.

And maybe the face it belongs to.

Elide’s grin transforms into a sleepy, beaming smile. It takes Lorcan a moment to realize it’s because _he_ smiled. Before he knows what’s happening, her thumb brushes the lightest touch along his bottom lip, tracing the curve of his smile. Watching him with that look like she’s learning something. Studying his smile like some sort of rarity – because it is.

His breath catches in his chest. Her finger stills in the corner of his mouth. He can feel her heartbeat through her skin – racing just like his. Something like realization crosses her face and suddenly she’s leaning up, those pink lips rising toward him.

 _I can’t let her do this_ , he thinks wildly, _She’s drunk_. His resolve wavers, half of him desperate to take her face in his hands and kiss her until she forgets everything – those men in her past, the pain in her ankle, Lorcan’s own cruelty. He doesn’t even care that she was vomiting her guts up ten minutes ago.

But the break in his self-control doesn’t matter, because her lips find his cheek, leaving a chaste, lingering kiss on his stubble.

“You’re good to me,” she mutters against his skin.

Does she feel the way he shivers at her words? Does she feel the way he stiffens under as her breath blows across his cheek? He raises his hand and covers hers, pressing her palm against his chin for a moment before lowering it back to her lap.

She leans back into her pillow after pressing another quick peck to his cheek, settling back against the flimsy cot with a contented sigh. He stares at her, still trying to process what just happened. Her laugh – genuine and impolite and so _warm_ – wakes him from his reverie.

“You said I wouldn’t remember this tomorrow,” she says, giving a coy shrug, “So I might as well make the best of tonight. Goodnight, Lorcan.”

He clears his throat, realizing that he’s sitting on the edge of her bed staring down at her.

“Goodnight, Elide,” he rasps, giving her hand – still trapped in his – a squeeze before standing. Mechanically, he crosses the tent to extinguish the lantern before laying on his bedroll, trying to slow his racing heartbeat.

 _She’s drunk. She’s drunk and young and doesn’t know what she’s doing_ , he tells himself, over and over. To a girl like Elide, soft touches mean nothing. They don’t hold the same significance to her as they do to him.

But even as he tries to convince himself, he knows that’s not true. Elide has known nothing soft in her short life. She is just like him at her age – desperate for a hint of safety, of warmth. Is that what she thinks she’s found here? With…with _him_?

The thought simultaneously terrifies and exhilarates him.

He listens as her breath grows deeper and more even, her heartbeat slowing to a steady rhythm. This life of travel and performances exhausts her, even if she refuses to admit it, so Lorcan usually doesn’t have to wait very long before she slips asleep. Tonight, though, even in her drunk haze, she clings to consciousness.

“Lorcan?” she says, softly, cautiously. Unsure if he’s still awake.

At least fifteen minutes have passed since they said their goodnights. He could stay silent, feign sleep. He probably should – stop encouraging her in this state.

But he can’t. He won’t.

“Hm?”

“I have another question.”

“You’re really curious about sex, aren’t you, Elide?”

“I’m being serious,” she says with a little chuckle. He can hear the exhaustion in her voice, can picture her face turning towards his – curious, expectant, heavy-lidded – though he refuses to look at her. His resolve is already strained past repair; he doesn’t want to push it.

“Go ahead.”

There’s a long beat of silence. If he couldn’t hear her heart, count her breaths, he might have thought she’d gone back to sleep. But then her voice breaks the comfortable silence enveloping them like an arrow through his armor: “Do you still hate me?”

Lorcan wants to say “I never hated you”, but that would be a lie and he knows it. She knows it, too.

“No,” he says with a heavy sigh, clenching his hands into fists on his stomach.

Elide hums, the only acknowledgement that she heard him. Lorcan risks a glance towards her. His Fae eyes piercing through the velvet dark of the night, he sees her fiddling with her fingers. If he had to guess, he’d say that little worried notch is fixed firmly between her brows.

After another long moment she says, even softer now, “Do you like me, Lorcan?”

Her voice is splintered with doubt, like cracks spiderwebbed through a windowpane. He knows through his own stubborn pride how difficult it must be for her to be so vulnerable in front of him, to ask _this_ question. Simple on the surface, but – if he knows Elide like he thinks he does – much more complex.

Elide can put on different personalities like masks at a dance, disarming people with no other weapon than lies and her mind. Too often, he has watched her fade into the background of a tavern or bar. So invisible he’d think she was using some ancient magic if he didn’t know it was simply the power of her mind. But that invisibility comes with a price. No one knows Elide. The other performers know her as a completely different name, for Hellas’ sake. Those that like her don’t actually like _her_ – they like Marion. It’s why Mary was able to lure her off with the women, enticed by the possibility of real friendship.

He knows what it’s like to walk the world unknown, unloved, unattached.

He knows loneliness.

“Yes,” he says. It feels like admitting a crime. Like a confession. “Much more than I should.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her nod, the flash of her teeth as she smiles.

Elide sighs, satisfied with his answers enough to finally sleep, apparently. She rolls over a few times, before eventually settling onto her side, facing Lorcan. Through the dark, he sees the serenity on her face as her breathing evens out. One hand wrapped around her chest, the other under her cheek, she is the picture of peace.

He wishes she could feel this safe all the time. He wishes he could take the burden of her mission off her shoulders. He wishes he could…

“Do you still fear me?”

The words leaves his mouth before he even decides to speak. It’s barely louder than a breath. He half-hopes she doesn’t answer. He half-hopes she sits up and jumps into his arms.

Hellas, he never should have left Maeve.

“Lorcan.” The sound of his name on her tongue sends a bolt of warmth through him. “It’s been a long time since I was afraid of you.”

“Do you like me?” He’s not even sure her mortal ears will be able to hear him he speaks so softly.

But they do. Elide always hears him. Always sees him with those piercing, glinting eyes.

She sighs. “Very much.” There’s a beat of silence. His breath is caught in his throat. “Too much.”

He rolls over, putting his back toward her. After another moment, he hears her do the same, heaving another deep sigh that might have been disappointment before she finally slips asleep.

Lorcan listens to her breathe for a long, long time. Keeping his thoughts at bay by counting her breaths, tensing every time she twitches or her breath hitches. Ready to jump to his feet if she needs to be sick again, if she wakes with a strangled cry, trying to escape another nightmare.

He tries to think of Maeve. Tries to summon up any of that familiar, burning loyalty and devotion. Tries to feel that hunger for her approval – for _her_ – that has kept him going for so many decades. Tries to remember his pride in being her soldier, in carrying out this mission for her sake; tries to remember that righteous anger he’d felt when hunting down Whitethorn and that yellow-haired bitch of his.

But he can feel none of it now. The memory of Maeve is like bitter nostalgia, once happy memories now tainted, lacking. The warmth and comfort he used to seek from Maeve now seems cold and half-hearted compared to the way Elide simply _looks_ at him. No hint of adoration, of condescension, of manipulation in her gaze. Of everything Maeve has used against him for all these years.

He almost laughs out loud. The great Lorcan Salvaterre, the scourge of Doranelle, the Fae Queen’s most fearsome warrior laid low by a plain-faced, tiny, limping mortal. He should be offended. Maeve would tell him to leave her behind. Fenrys would say to fuck her out of his system and if that didn’t work, Connall would say to draw his knife across her throat and leave her in his wake.

For the first time in years he envies Whitethorn. If only he and Elide could move with the same intimacy and comfort that he and his upstart queen do. If only he could give Elide those casual, protective touches that Whitethorn gave Galathynius. If only…

He glances over his shoulder. The steady rise and fall of Elide’s side calms his mind. As long as she’s alive. As long as she’s here. With him.

Lorcan smiles at the thought, remembering the beat of her heart through her skin as she traced his lips.

 _Oh, Hellas_ , he thinks, throwing his head back against his pillow, _I am well and truly fucked_.


End file.
